


In Die Irae Ergo Parce

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angels, I Believe in Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 08:00:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've had this idea for a fanvid for ages, but I don't have access to the source material in a non avi format and the story wants to burst out of me, so I put this down in story form until I can make the vid happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Die Irae Ergo Parce

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics from Regina Spektor's "Lacrimosa," found on the album _Songs_.

_We keep on burying our dead_  
 _We keep on planting their bones in the ground_  
 _But they won't grow, the sun doesn't help_  
 _The rain doesn't help_  

There were many rules for an angel, but John Watson knew none of them.  For John Watson didn't know that he _was_ an angel, and perhaps this is why our story of vengeance and judgement becomes one of mercy, in the end.

  
_If my garden would have a fence_   
_Then the rabbits couldn't just come in_   
_And sit on the grass and eat all the flowers_   
_And shit_

A thin layer of dust covered the flat by the time John gained the courage to return. He'd been known for bravery in the army, but deep down, in the niggling deep places that bypassed his physical gut and drilled down where it hurt worse than anything, he knew that he wasn't brave. He knew that he was supposed to bleed out in Kandahar, and there wasn't any reason for him to be here, any more than there was a reason for the selfish love he bore for a mad scientist who jumped like a myth from seven stories of stone and false promises.

_Hi, I'm Icarus, I'm falling down_  
Man for judgment must prepare me  
Spare oh God and mercy  
Spare  
  
So John the coward came to the flat after six months and remembered the man that had made him feel almost brave, made him feel like flying, certainly. He wasn't sure he could distinguish between flying and falling, but when he looked at the twin chairs and thought of Jim Moriarty standing there, sipping tea, he threw a book at the wall.  The old leather spine broke satisfyingly, sending yellowed pages and dust flying. John sat on the floor and tried to remember what satisfaction felt like.

_Man, I have a terrible feeling_  
That some thing's gone awful very wrong with the world  
Is it something we made?  
Is it something we ate?  
Is it something we drank?

A year on, nothing had changed much.  He lived in 221B again, claiming it was all he could afford. When he couldn't sleep (more often than not, now) he'd go through the old case files by lamplight, sitting at the desk and occasionally closing his eyes as if he could imagine the blue glow of the telly and Sherlock's barking criticisms into existence. Sometimes he wrapped his body in the warm blue dressing gown that still smelled faintly of him against all odds, searching for irregularities and finding none. If he was looking for a clue in those files, for a moment where he lost the thread of the narrative, he never found one. But sometimes, when the rain brought with it the dawn and his eyes rimmed red with exhaustion, he prayed.

_Hi I'm Icarus, I'm falling  
From the dust of earth  
Returning back for judgment we must prepare  
Spare oh god and mercy  
Spare me  
_   
_Lacrimosa_   
_Lacrimosa_

He wouldn't cry in public, more out of doubt that Mycroft had ever stopped watching the CCTV than out of concern for his masculinity. Despite his characteristic reservation, he'd given up such foibles since the fall. It didn't help him much to tell anyone he wasn't gay when the man he'd loved was dead. The words felt like ash in his mouth and so much uncertainty. Was that all we were doing? he wondered. Playing for time?

John Watson was an angel who didn't believe in destiny anymore.

_They keep on burying our dead_   
_They keep on planting their bones in the ground  
But they won't grow, the sun doesn't help  
And all we've got is a giant crop of names and dates_

John sifted through the files for another year, nearly, and through Sherlock's books, just looking. For memories? For a code, like the one in the A-to-Z? For a note?

He couldn't believe that Sherlock's last words had been one, after all, for all he knew the man. It was that wrongness that kept him looking, searching as if still the faithful servant, the slow but eager-to-please blogger.

Sometimes, when he had to, and only then, he sat in front of that forbidding black marble stone, fingers scratching into the ruddy dry ground. No verdant soft soil to water where the pieces of John's heart lay.  Even angel dust couldn't fertilize the hope that even now, deep in John's chest, was beginning to flicker out.

_Hi I'm Icarus, I'm falling down_  
 _On this day of tears and mourning_  
From the dust of earth returning  
Man for judgment must spare me  
Spare oh god and mercy  
Spare me

_Lacrimosa  
Lacrimosa_

"John."

He very nearly punched Mycroft in the mouth, restrained himself only just with a fist stuffed in his pocket. 

"Piss off."

"He... you won't have to live like this forever, Doctor."

"I'm not looking to move on right now," was all John said, crisp and revelatory because he didn't have the energy to keep a secret from a Holmes. He turned and strode off briskly before Mycroft could reply, cane clicking on the pavement.

  
_Lacrimosa dies ilia_   
_Qua resurget ex favilla  
Judicandus homo reus_

It was anti-climatic, in the end. He had a scratch on his face, from left temple to nose. John wanted to shoot him, put them both in the ground side by side. He wanted to lock him inside the flat and never let go, coiling Sherlock in all the righteous possessive rage of a scorned and terrible heavenly beast. In the end he did neither. He forgave over the slow march of days, and something like changing crept over them. Sherlock's hair grew from its stark shaved state and John's fingers found his curls one night and he swallowed each I'm sorry, because one afternoon on the hot desert sands he had found some mercy if only to be able to return it here. An angel who doesn't know his true name and a man who fell trying to touch the brilliant sun might live among us yet, if only to witness a city's beating heart.

  
_Huic ergo parce, Deus_


End file.
